The Window
by WhiteGloves
Summary: Mycroft is sick and didn't want to rely on anyone. Here comes Sherlock barging in who was also the reason his brother was on his sickbed. Yet nothing was ever plain as the brothers interact with the usual energy of the Holmeses. /brotherly fluff/ Holmes brothers/ Disclaimer on facts/ ONESHOT!


***** **The Window** *****

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _A.N: I've been told my last story was quite depressing. I felt it too -.-_

 _So for a lighter, brotherly Holmes story, I present a new one ***coughs***_

 _ **Thank you and enjoy!**_

* * *

One-shot

* * *

Mycroft rubbed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose with face of exasperation as his lips curved down, his overall countenance that of a man who had to deal with trivialities of those surrounding him and had been inconveniently asked to _bother._ He was on his moving sedan and had just come out of White Hall after meeting the Home Secretary and Foreign Secretary who had not any good news regarding the nation's standing with Brexit on the door what with a hundred constituents from England, Scotland and Wales now voting _remain_. If that isn't a tidal wave of children playing cross-court like this was a matter easily solved by returning a candy to a crying bully.

Then there was the matter with the Tory leader Brexiteer and the Ministers who had not yet reached any agreement regarding the rules, scope and other deals to be made between EU and UK, of its future relationship, trades and border checks between Northern Ireland and Republic of Ireland which are members of EU still. There shall be a meeting by Friday and was one thing Mycroft was looking forward to. He could hardly wait to be in front of these ignoramuses and enlighten them that if they could not play smart, then at least, play fair. _Or play forward_ and follow through actually genuine plan, not dogs with tails in their behind because the worst possible scenario was laid out in front of them.

And then there was the case with the PM who had this initial 'big gamble' to present to the Cabinet by Thursday. Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at this for the PM, bold as she may be, could certainly lead them in doomsday. There was this buzz of a 'new plan' to which they feed the media, of which Mycroft was the orchestrator just to ease the mind of the many to avoid sheer public panic. Not that Mycroft had anything against her, what with left and right threats of resignation from different departments all because _she wouldn't listen to him_. And what was on her doorstep now? A call of Senior MP's who were all agitated to remove her from the position. Didn't Mycroft warn her of that too?

No, he didn't. How many Prime Ministers had been removed because of his initiative? Hardly the first one.

Majority of the Cabinet too remained divided. Mycroft had not said anything of it even with Lady Smallwood's silent prodding and urging that he take over. He only observed for the most part the people within his own department and that of others. Tension had risen, many had spoken openly and heat of debate had been on most of their meetings and still, Mycroft remained silent. Tensions like these bring out the worse and the worst of people. He wasn't one to miss the opportunity to sketch out those who he needs as countermeasure to Great Britain's debacle of the century. He was, after all, the investigating officer who can dismiss each and everyone of them if he deemed them obviously trivial and lacking of merit. Daily meeting with them however was making him lose patience and actually choose to settle things his way if everything was still not in order by Thursday for the Friday meeting with the PM.

On top of it all were other concerns for the country's terrorism which was much exiting for Mycroft to crack. There had been five critical threats in the country since the beginning of the month, three of which his team had been able to successfully stop, one slipped sadly in Manchester—which the Secret Service managed to manipulate to a local firing a gun to show off in front of his friends. This was to avoid an increase fame to terrorist, yet it was still a fact that they source failed because of misinformation. The last threat was able to figure out they were prepared and decided to do the hijacking of a plane in another country. Mycroft have had many wins, but there were godawful times that he would fall short.

He had just finished reviewing all of these as he entered his car, thus the rubbing of his nose. All governmental problems and terrorism were his to solve. What he could not do something about was the horrific rain that plagued the country after the heat wave to which he could still feel having been exposed a number of times as summer fades to flood and rain that battered Britain. It seems that not even the heaven was in his favor as the sedan glided on pass Big Ben when he remembered something he needed to do. Something of which that could remove all the tension away from his body seemingly making it more inconsequential when he steps foot in that black door. A place where his governmental duties doesn't matter because no one under its roof had an inkling to care not because they couldn't but because they were ignorant. The only other place he was loathed to visit aside from the Downings but the irony of his life was to go to places he didn't mean to. For instance, _221b Baker Street._

The rain was crashing under the roof of his car when the black sedan stopped in front of his younger brother's abode. Mycroft gave the black door one disapproving look before taking his umbrella, opening it at the same time as his side door and walking out into the puddled pavement. That should give Sherlock plenty of things to analyze of his hithertos. Knocking on the door with his wide-open umbrella shielding him from the shower, Mycroft was welcomed by the landlady who had greeted him once and went on about the weather and how people couldn't do their whatbout business without getting the flue. Mycroft courteously thanked her as he pulled his umbrella down, then looking at Mrs. Hudson, he was taken aback to see a set of large, blue bright eyes staring back at him innocently with her pudgy, rosy cheeks and short blonde hair.

"Oh." Of course, it was John's baby. Two years old, wasn't she? Mycroft stood still awkwardly, staring at her too.

"Oh, you've met her, right Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson caressed the baby who was sitting on her arms wearing a long pink pyjamas, thick sleeves and warm bonnet on her head, obviously about to go outside. "John and Mary's baby. Say hello to uncle Holmes the second, Rosie you…" she cooed and pecked on the baby's cheek.

Mycroft felt the hair at the back of his neck stood up at being given such epitaph as he blinked at the bright-eyed bundle of cries-and-woes of those who own her and had to shake his head.

"Uhmm… is Sherlock present?" his discomfort was obvious only to himself as he raised his eyes to the upper floors, clearly avoiding the baby's eyes as it loomed on him like pair of lamps, judgmental and bright.

"Oh yes, they're upstairs." Mrs. Hudson nodded with a smile and together the adults looked up and could distinctly hear shouts from above. Her smile didn't diminish, "Having a lovely couple's row. The usual."

"I'm sure it is." Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I suppose this isn't a good time…" he started backing away from the door.

"Nonsense, you're family, not a stranger." Mrs. Hudson turned to him with her smile showing her teeth, her optimism not failing to bemuse the older Holmes, "Go on ahead and see the fun they're having. I was just about to go the café outside but I couldn't find my umbrella."

Mycroft instinctively gripped his umbrella tight as her eyes fell on it. But he already knew what she was about to say next.

"I wonder if I could borrow that?"

Handling a gun-blade weapon to a not-so-innocent wife of a drug cartel was like submitting to a local terrorist was what Mycroft thought as he hesitated for a second. Still, his arms had reached up mechanically as Rosie's eyes bore on him.

"Do be careful." He said ominously as she took it gratefully and headed for the door.

"Oh, it's just rain." She chuckled good naturedly, the baby's attention shifting to the shower of rain outside and clapping her tiny hands, "Nothing bad ever comes out of heavenly rain. If anything, it washes the bad stuff out."

Mycroft watched her go and was left standing on his own for a moment, contemplating the loss of his weapon and the conflicting feelings it caused him, before quietly looking at the stairs and then up to the rooms above, wondering if it was any safer to continue without protection. Arguments could still be heard above and he was having second thoughts of having a hand in the domesticity but then he had to wait for his umbrella. Having left with no options, he found his feet taking the stairs, which made him sigh drearily in the end.

As he progressed on, he could hear the heated dispute growing louder and louder that by the time he was standing outside the first door leading to the kitchen, he knew exactly what they were disagreeing about. Shaking his head again and wanting nothing but to turn and run to his car, Mycroft reached for the doorknob, not bothering to announce himself and pushing it open.

Only to be splashed with icy cold-water head first that shook him to the core.

He stood there, frozen for a second, dripping wet and cold as his eyes lingered on the person holding the empty bucket of water wearing a casual bathrobe while John Watson gripped his right arm. The two friends were also shock to see him, but Mycroft had more growing concern: there was a tingle on his spine that slowly crept up above to his neck, filling his chest, on to his nose—

 _And he sneezed._

* * *

"Be glad it isn't my jack knife that hurtled right at you. It has a habit of flying around occasionally." Sherlock said in a disappointed voice as he sat opposite his brother on his favorite chair moments later while the older Holmes wiped his face with his pristine handkerchief. His upper garment was soaked from neck to the end of his tie, he could even feel water sliding at his back as he wiped of the mixture of his sweat and water from his forehead. He had removed his coat and it now hung on the armchair while his waist coat remained damp. All three of them had been surprised at the occurrence but as usual, it was Sherlock who had recovered first and disgracefully chortled in spite of his two audience.

Mycroft gave his younger brother a deathly glare.

"If its customary for you to throw objects across the room on impulse then what makes you any better than a baby having a tantrum?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if it all was meant to be a joke. John came back from the bathroom and handed Mycroft a clean towel.

"You should change your clothes, you'll get sick if you don't."

"I'd rather not expose another target for my brother's amusement." Mycroft responded as he wiped his cold neck and continued glaring at Sherlock, "Besides no clothes of his would fit my standards."

"Nothing here fits in your taste." Sherlock retorted evenly, "And its your fault for not knocking on the door first, where are your manners?"

"If manner is questioned, then shouldn't you look in the mirror and ask yourself why on time and day you could have a client, you're on your bathrobe and throwing ice buckets about?"

"It's your fault for being _slow._ " Sherlock raised both his eyebrows with a smirk on his face as his meaning sent him another glare from his older sibling, "You really have no knack for avoiding bullets. It's ironic you're the mastermind behind the most dangerous organization in Britain."

"Get off my case." Mycroft warned as he wiped his shoulders and still feeling its dampness on his skin. "If you haven't been arguing about bloodstains on your bedsheet, I wouldn't have come in as I did."

"Ah, curiosity killed the cat." Sherlock grinned now, before his eyes averted to his flat mate who was just standing beside Mycroft's chair with crossed eyebrows. "I would have washed the stains by now if he didn't stop me."

"You were going to throw it on _your bed._ " Said the doctor through gritted teeth, "Not exactly what I call _washing."_

"Icy cold water is much better in removing stains." To Mycroft, Sherlock added, "Be glad again it isn't hot water or you'll really regret having to come today."

"Thank you for your change of mind." The older Holmes offered disheartened. "And I suppose another enemy of yours collapsed on your bed?" he added sardonically, "Or your jackknife missed?"

"He came from the morgue with another _spare part_ and left it on his bed as he took a shower." John supplied with a long press of a sigh while Mycroft closed his eyes and opened them.

"I figured as much."

"Where's your umbrella?" John sounded surprised as this just dawned on him while Sherlock glance at his brother once more who had this exasperated look on his face.

"I've been robbed downstairs."

Sherlock smiled one-sidedly having grasped his meaning. "And? What are you doing here?"

Mycroft loosened his tie as he felt his throat clogged and raise a knowing eyebrow. "I nearly forgot because it is so _unimportant._ But your friend from Christmas? That lanky man who drugged me to sleep and helped you orchestrated that theatrical plan of clown murder on my house, you remember?"

"Wiggins?"

"He's imprisoned. Caught in one of those drug raids. Not that I care." Mycroft's phone rang while Sherlock and John exchanged looks. Mycroft on the other hand had just heard the voice of his secretary, Ms. Four, informing him of a sudden gathering of MPs in Parliament that made him frown. Are they planning a boycott? Coup? They can't be that stupid.

"And how long was this?" Sherlock carefully watched as Mycroft stood up from his chair. The older Holmes graced him a look and stopping for a moment as he forgot again one of Sherlock's _insignificant_ topics and blinking. "Oh, about a month ago."

"A month?" John blinked several times, "And you're only just telling us now?"

Meanwhile Mycroft had returned his phone in his pocket, handed John back the towel he used and took his neatly folded coat on the armchair to his arms. To Sherlock he said, "I would have told you something more significant but all this hustle has left me no choice but to postpone it. I'd throw that bedsheet if I were you, unless you are again some sentimental fool who wants to preserve his first bedsheet in his flat."

"It is _not_ my first bedsheet!" Sherlock shouted after his brother who had bid them good day and had disappeared down the stairs. "It's the third. I'm incredibly thrifty."

Mycroft heard him but another dilemma was presented to the older Holmes as he stopped at the foot of the stairs.

His umbrella was still missing. Clicking his tongue, he looked around the ground floor only to find a pink umbrella lying on one of the tables by the stairs. Staring transfixed at its color, Mycroft left without another word on to the doorway where he was met by downpour. Hesitating once as he was only steps away from his sedan, Mycroft ran out on to the pavement with cold rain washing over him then stopping midway to look over the Speedy cafes where an umbrella stand was to be found. He saw his black, stylish umbrella there with the other ghastly colored ones. He made to turn and take it, but then saw on the window of Speedys that Mrs. Hudson and the baby were still inside. Mycroft paused as he watched them, then quickly withdrew towards his car and shut himself inside it, now soaking wet from head to foot.

The car glided away with Mycroft wiping every part of his arms with his damp handkerchief. He then dialed his secretary and gave his instructions so that when he arrived at the Parliament, he was met by Ms. Four, even giving him the spare clothes, he had asked her to bring, plus his dark overcoat.

"Have they begun the meeting?"

"Yes sir." She answered eagerly. Mycroft nodded and closed the window before taking the dry coat from the neat bundle which he only pulled above his soaked garment. He then pulled his dark overcoat too and proceeded to go outside without a care as he marched on inside the Parliament to stop whatever barbaric action was already taking place.

Really, politicians and their lack of diplomacy. But he already saw it coming.

Arriving at the door, he was instantly given access to the room. Mycroft expected all voices to die down once his presence was realized. What Mycroft did not expect was the blow of the cold AC on to his whole body the moment he stepped inside. The older Holmes glanced at the air-conditioning with an impassive face, before fully walking inside with eyes falling on him. Aware that he was still wearing his dark overcoat that may raise interest, Mycroft found his chair, pull out from his overcoat and place it securely at the back of his chair, feeling the chills in the air, gritting his teeth over it, and then he began to speak.

* * *

Mycroft woke up with body as heavy as lead. There was a sickening dryness in his throat and the urge to throw up sent warning signals all over his body. His body too, he realized, felt limp and not his. His arms and legs were all protesting as he tried to move, his eyes wanting nothing but to be kept shut, but worse of all was the shivering of his already blanketed body on the bed. Mycroft opened his burning eyes and gave a deep, long sigh.

Of all times, days before the meeting with the Prime Minister, days before the most important gathering that would decide the fate of Great Britain, he Mycroft, had to be _sick._

He pushed himself up his bed albeit grudgingly, suddenly aware of the swimming of his head and the heaviness of it on his shoulder. He coughed drily many times and the sound of it did not please him. His manner of breathing too had changed, with phlegm in his coughs already making its existence known. Mycroft sat still to steady his eyes, before opening them and blinking in his surroundings. The drapes of his window were closed together but he could make out the darkness outside. Looking on the clock across him, he found it was only two in the morning.

Feeling really sick and dry, Mycroft pulled his legs down the floor, feeling his limbs shook as he tried to stand and slowly made progress toward the table where his reserved pitcher of water was placed. He drank three glass full of water, then stood still with a hand on the table. His head began swimming again and it was with great struggle that he made his way back on his bed and carefully placed his body there, wondering if he was about to die from the pain.

He didn't move from his position, his consciousness getting consumed immediately by exhaustion.

He woke up again about six in the morning, this time his breath was labored and warm. Mycroft laid on his back for a while, his eyes open and left staring into the ceiling. There was no doubt now that he had cold, his body was rising in temperature he could feel the warmness of his bed under his back. He was not sweating yet so he knew it was only the beginning. He didn't move too, knowing full well it would only cause him to get dizzy. He didn't like getting dizzy.

He didn't like the strong, aggressive coughs that would attack him every now and then too. It was too painful on the chest and the head so he stayed there on his bed, clutching on his blanket and pulling it closer to his neck. His office call time was no later than ten o clock. He had time to spare. Maybe it would go away. But then even he doubted that. He fell asleep dreaming terribly of the shouting bobbly heads of the politicians he met yesterday while deep inside him he kept asking why Sherlock was sitting on the Prime Minister's chair.

Horrible.

That was what Mycroft thought next moment he woke up after another hour. He was feeling very hot now and he knew he had to call in someone. He must tell his secretary that under no means are the politicians be left on their playground again, making a mental note to alarm Smallwood of the conspiracy of Sherlock and the Prime Minister and questioning how John Watson became the Deputy Task Force Commander of United States with that big bright-eyed baby of his.

Mycroft pulled himself out of bed again, feeling hot and exhausted. His dreams were becoming worse and worse every time he closed his eyes. Was it because of the vulnerable state of his mind that he could not afford to raise defenses on menacing dreams? At the moment, he didn't care. His head was pounding hard and his eyes refused to open without the prickling pain at the back of his sockets. Still, he had to _spit_ it out. Mustering his already dehydrated strength, he stood up clumsily from the bed and went towards the spittoon hidden near the fireside. After this pattern, he carried the container straight under his bed where he laid down again with closed eyes.

What time was it?

Big Ben was chiming again, after a long absence. The London eye was swirling too fast he wondered if it was some sort of terrorism. There were also octopus tentacles coming out of Thames and Mycroft immediately recognized it as a dream and watched in amusement as it tried to wiggle in the air as if reaching something it could not see. He then wished Sherlock would stop sing-reciting his Shakespearean play. He sounded like a broken phone recorder, only to be woken up by his mobile ringing.

Mycroft, without opening his eyes, felt for his phone on the side table of the bed. Succeeding after many attempts of swatting the air, the older Holmes was loathed once more to open his eyes, especially as the brightness of the LCD hit his already sensitive eyes.

Not bothering to see the caller, he put the mobile on his ears, getting slightly perturbed at its coldness on his hot skin. Then he spoke in a voice too hollow to be recognized.

 _"Mr. Holmes?"_ it was his secretary, Ms. Four. The British Government Head was forced to open his eyes to see the time that read half past twelve. Rubbing his eyelids with his palms, Mycroft breathed a sigh.

"I thought I already sent a message?" he muttered with his voice was husky, "Obviously you didn't receive it… blasted dream. Anyway, I'm feeling too unwell. Is everything fine?"

 _"Yes, sir. Do you want me to come there and help you, sir?"_

"No need, I'll have my brother over." THAT of course, was a lie. Mycroft would give anything not to have Sherlock Holmes messing in his house while he lay defenseless on his bed. He could just imagine another bucket of water or jackknife flying all over the place. "I'll have the doctor too. See to it that you report to me everything that will happen in my absence."

 _"Yes, sir."_

"And Ms. Four?"

 _"Yes, sir?"_

"Inform me if there's any news from the side of the PM."

 _"Yes, sir."_

The phone call ended and Mycroft dropped his mobile beside him, his left forearm falling to shield his eyes from any further light assault. He was just beginning to doze off again when he heard his mobile ring again. Ignoring it at first, the older Holmes wondered if he could go down the kitchen for his water pitcher has long been empty and he was so dry. His cough was painful and so was his chest. He just wanted to lay there till the soreness of his joints disappear.

But the dastardly mobile won't shut up.

"What?" his voice came out grimly as another cough threatened to burst from his mouth.

 _"Ahh… caught the flu, I see?"_

Mycroft shut his eyes and opt to throw the mobile. Recognizing Sherlock's voice only brought another tinge of pain on the top of his head. Then the compulsion to get angry got the best side of him.

"Whose fault do you think this is?"

 _"I figured you'd be taking a day off. My sources tell me you never came in your office."_

"And I suppose you'd find it more interesting if I'd been abducted or left dead to provide your mystery of the day?"

There was a soft chuckle on the other end whilst Mycroft responded by a wave of cough that hurt his sides, even dropping the phone on the bed as he tried to muster the strength to remain seated, and getting overwhelmed by the weakness of his own body that he bent over and clutched on his blankets. When his nausea passed, he laid there quite in pain for some before having the strength to feel of his phone and taking a deep breath to calm his loudly beating heart.

"Anyway," Mycroft went on as if nothing happened, aware that his voice had changed because of the clogging of his nose, "I'll be indisposed for the day so behave yourself… for goodness sake, Sherlock don't make me crawl into one of your games. I have not the strength to deal with your eccentricities today."

 _"That's rich coming from the man who's always a target for most dragons I behead."_

"Halt the beheadings for now, they're all chewing each other's neck as we speak." Mycroft coughed again and sniffed, "I have a meeting tomorrow and I need to get well. Good day to you, brothermine."

He didn't wait for Sherlock to speak, he turned his phone off and dropped it on the bedside table before dropping his heavy legs on the floor again. This time he took his thick robe with him and wore it around his shoulder. He then took the empty pitcher and looked daringly at the door of his room then silently headed for it. The daunting idea of the stairs didn't stop him from getting down without falling, though he was very slow. He reached the kitchen and headed for the water dispenser where he filled his container—his mistake however was to overestimate his strength. As soon as the pitcher began to be full, his wrist gave away clumsily—topping the pitcher side wards and spilling water everywhere—it even got his slippers wet. Mycroft stood straight and walked towards the counter, wondering if he should clean up or head upstairs. His indecision annoyed him that in the end, he decided that he still needed water, the older Holmes grabbed a glass, filled it from the tap and drank in gulps. It freshened his sore throat, at the same time making him cough several times again. He spat on the sink, then vomited.

His energy drained, Mycroft sat on the chair and dropped his head on his arms. He wanted to go back to his warm bed, he wanted to change his damp socks and wanted to just sleep there too. He didn't remember eating but he was sure he'd vomit them all out too. His head was light, and he could feel the friction on his burning head and arms. He wanted to sleep, he probably did at length, but a voice in his head told him it was a bad idea to sleep in the cold kitchen. So he stood up.

His surrounding began to swim again and Mycroft had to clutch on the table. Blinking back the heat stinging his eyes, he slowly walked out of the room and headed for the stairs. His vision doubled upon stepping on the first stair and had to have second thoughts if he could make it. The stairs of his house were no easy feat and the voice at the back of his head was already telling him to back down when a strong impulse to cough and vomit at the same time assaulted him.

Weakened, he dropped on the floor and clutched his stomach, feeling the shiver of his body entering his bones. He was burning and cold at the same time.

 _Was this a simple flu?_ He couldn't help but wonder as slowly darkness began to consume him.

Then there were voices.

 _"It's alright, he didn't fall down or anything."_

 _"Let's carry him upstairs. You're taller, you take him, I'll follow."_

 _"I told you he'd be dying and still wouldn't call a soul for help."_

 _"Kind of thick, isn't he? Just like you."_

 _"We're not really a fan of being in debt to others, to be honest."_

 _"Not even you?"_

 _"He's just stupid."_

The next instant, he felt his body rise from the cold floor—strong hands clamped on his shoulder—and then there was only warmth next to him. He was half getting dragged and carried to his room.

"Finally found yourself on the ground, did you?" came an amused voice.

Mycroft sighed as he recognized the voice and let the man lead him with his arm hanging around his shoulder.

"An escalator… soon." He whispered as he looked at Sherlock, his vision blurred. "I assume… that small figure beside you is the doctor?"

"Had you been murdered, I'll be in charge. But since you're sick and alive, you need a doctor." Sherlock said as they reached his room with John scrambling on Mycroft's feet and carrying it up on the bed. The good doctor then removed his wet socks, wiped his feet and then covered them with some new ones he probably found on the older Holmes' drawers. Sherlock turned to his brother as Mycroft met his eyes. "Couldn't just ask me properly to come, could you?"

"And spend time with you when I meant to be well the very next day?" Mycroft coughed. John whisked Sherlock away to take the older Holmes' pulse. He then checked his eyes before planting a stethoscope on his chest. Sherlock stood beside him and waited for the verdict.

"Yep. Severe cold. His pulse is erratic, his heart rate is normal but..." The doctor frowned. "Have you eaten?"

Mycroft answered him with coughs and a single shake of head. Sherlock immediately dialed Molly's number to ask for help while John shook his head and proceeded to cover his body with thick layers of blanket.

"It's already 3 in the afternoon, Mycroft." John muttered, beside himself, "Jesus, you planning on hitting the bucket soon?"

"I plan to attend a meeting tomorrow," Mycroft said softly in a voice that didn't belong to him, "So please, do what you're made for and cure this body."

"You're already sick and all you can think about is the state of the nation?" Sherlock cried decisively, "You really are something."

"Even if you do get better tomorrow, it would not be wise to leave your bed." John said with the authority of a doctor that made Mycroft subside. "You'll be staying put, Mycroft."

Mycroft opened his glinting, feverish eyes. "On whose authority?"

 _"Mine."_ Sherlock answered in a tone that warranted no argument.

The older Holmes closed his eyes tight and then sighed. _"Fine. Do what you want."_

* * *

Mycroft's fever didn't go down that night. He was chilled to the bone and suffered immensely from dry coughing. John stayed the night with Sherlock who stood guard behind the doctor, watching the progress as he kept the fireside cackling with fire. Soon the room became very warm but so did Mycroft's body.

"We'll be needing ice packs soon." Said John with a determined glance at Sherlock who looked back at him. "His temperature keeps rising. He's almost at the end point getting 102—we'll have to send him to the hospital if the ice bucket didn't work."

"On it." And Sherlock disappeared. "He'll be unhappy to know he's got ice on his face again."

It took John Watson a straight two hours to break Mycroft's fever. After that, his temperature slowly subsided. The ice-packs weren't needed after all.

Mycroft felt sweaty when his consciousness returned. He could feel every joints of his body were in pain. His wrists, elbows, his knees, even his heels. They were all numb and sore, like he had been using them nonstop and running a marathon. His labored breathes eased his tight chest a little but he was still feeling nauseous. He couldn't remember what he ate, but it was threatening to burst out of his mouth. So even though his body was protesting, he dragged himself upward, remove the bundle of blankets on his shoulder and then pulled his heavy legs down the floor. One minute he was sitting at the edge of the bed, the next second he was falling slowly down and though his mind was telling him what's happening, his body was too out of control to respond—

 _Headfirst on the cold floor. Bump and concussion_. Mycroft concluded as he closed his eyes as everything swirled in his sight—but the big collapse didn't happen. Instead, Mycroft found his head leaning on someone's shoulder. That someone was also holding his arms with such reliable presence.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice hit his ears.

"Vomit." Mycroft muttered without a care and soon his spittoon was produced and he vomited nonstop with Sherlock rubbing his back. As he finished, Mycroft made for the table but was strongly held by his younger brother, before he was forced back on the bed.

"Again," said Sherlock quite annoyed, dropping the blankets on his brother's lap, " _What are you doing?"_

"Water." Mycroft muttered with a moan as his head pained him. Sherlock stared at the man on the bed, before heading for the table and taking a glass of water back to his brother. The older Holmes drank in one gulp and thanked him before dropping himself on his bed. "Has John gone home?" he asked after a while.

"Thought you didn't notice." Sherlock observed, not withdrawing from the side of the bed. "He had to go after making sure you're not hitting the bucket, or so he says."

Mycroft was too sick to speak more so he laid there, immobile for a while. His discomfort was obvious, but his younger brother's shadow hovering above him was even more discomfiting that after a moment, Mycroft opened his fevered restless eyes and glanced at the dark-haired man.

"Aren't you going?"

"I planned to stay the night."

Mycroft stared at him with eyes narrowing. "Did you do something outside that made you come here for shelter?"

"No."

"Did you do something I may not forgive you for?"

"Maybe." Sherlock replied doggedly.

A streak of pain on his head caused the older Holmes to shut his eyes. "Oh, honestly, Sherlock." He sighed, his heavy eyes opening once again to meet that of his brother's. "You can tell me—"

It was Sherlock's turn to sound annoyed. "What's wrong with me looking after my brother?"

Mycroft didn't pull his eyes away from him, didn't even blink despite the temperature that was causing his body pain. Then he looked away and shut his muttering, "I don't believe you."

"I'd take a bullet for you and still you won't believe it."

"Shut it, my head's already aching as it is."

"Then go and rest. I'll just be here when you need something."

"Don't spoil me, Sherlock. I'm not used to people doing things for me." Mycroft felt Sherlock's hands took the tip of his blanket and raised it up his chest. "I don't like it."

"Get used to it." Sherlock said quite grimly as he patted his hand on his older brother's shoulder, "You're not getting any younger… and if you continue with this habit of isolating yourself when you get sick, who knows what'll happen to you? Imagine the most dangerous man in Britain getting concurred by gout?"

"I don't have gout."

"But you're sick and I worry."

"You better leave." Mycroft muttered but Sherlock saw a small smile cross his lips. "I shan't adopt you in this house. You probably did something to your landlady and is getting threatened to be thrown out. Forget it, Sherlock, I won't lend you your old room you set on fire years ago."

"I won't take it back. But I'll be here anyway."

 _Nasty kid with devilish charm…_ Mycroft thought but he was glad to know the depth of the concern of one so mischievous as his brother that before he finally succumbed into a deep slumber, he saw Sherlock sat back on the nearest chair to watch over him. Somehow, he saw the positive of one getting the flue. It brings out the best in his brother.

* * *

Mycroft woke up feeling much better the next morning. His muscles were still a bit stiff and there was this pain around his neck but his fever had gone done. Sitting up with sight much clearer than the last, he blinked quietly at the empty chair previously occupied by his brother. Looking around, he saw no sign of Sherlock. Mycroft took the robe placed on top of his covers and slowly pulled his legs down the bed. He wasn't as light headed as before, though his limbs were still weak. He walked straight to the pitcher filled with water and drank three glasses straight. Then tying his robe around the middle, he headed for the kitchen, only to hear clutter and someone—Sherlock—speaking as if he was on the mobile.

"Nope, he won't be coming there either. He's terribly sick and not even the nation's problem can rouse him."

Mycroft appeared on the doorway, leaned on wall with arms crossed to find his brother stirring his tea on one hand and talking to what Mycroft recognized as his mobile.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock immediately let go of the mobile without saying goodbye. He turned around to face Mycroft with a grin and then took the saucer with tea towards the table between them just as the older Holmes walked there and met him too.

"This is for you." Sherlock offered as he sat opposite Mycroft, his older brother doing the same. "John said hot beverages will help you get control of your upset, vomiting stomach."

The older Holmes stared down at the tea, and then up at his brother with eyes of amusement.

"Really, Sherlock. This is an overkill."

"Just take it."

Mycroft gave him a narrowed look, before setting his hand down and taking the tea suspiciously. "You didn't spike this with anything, did you? Sleeping powder, draught? Just to keep me from going to the outside world for another day?"

"It's free of anything." Sherlock assures him with a press of his lips but Mycroft did not drink it. Instead, he put his elbows on the table as he put the cup down, hold his hands together and set his silver eyes to his younger brother. "You're really not going to tell me?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Tell you what?"

A moment of silence, and then Mycroft finally took his smart mobile from his brother's hand, clicked on the gallery and then showing it to his brother again. There Sherlock's eyes returned to their normal dull, replacing that animated look he had give Mycroft since he woke up. On the phone we see a video shared on social media of the man himself, Sherlock, fighting three thugs on the street of London and recorded at it as he pulled out an umbrella—that suddenly turned into a sword when he unplugged from its hinges—that then turned into a gun when one of the thugs pulled a gun on him too— the video was garnering attention from the internet and caption per caption about the detective was beating that of John Watson's blog. What more, there was already attention on the internet about the unusual umbrella that seemed to have been taken from one of Bond's movies itself.

Sherlock pressed his lips closed and looked everywhere except his brother's. Mycroft let go of the phone and took a sip on the cup of tea, before turning to his younger brother with a smile plastered on his face.

"Well?"

"Stop looking so smug." Sherlock warned him as he finally met his older brother's eyes. "Since when did you find out?"

"Just last night." Mycroft admitted with a shrug. "You were acting funny so when I woke up and found you out of the room to relieve yourself, I hastily contacted the Service and this is what they gave me. We're brothers, Sherlock, and I'm in a position where I can get information I want so there's hardly anything you can keep from me."

Sherlock chewed his lips, his eyes becoming sharper. "It's your fault leaving a dangerous weapon like that—especially to my landlady. She returned it to me immediately, telling me it was yours. Why would you leave something like that in a civilian's hands?"

Mycroft sipped on the cup again and shrugged. "She needed an umbrella. I let her borrow."

"But why?"

"Does my unreasonable behavior surprise you?"

Sherlock's eyes shone. "For you to leave your weapon, yes. I've gone used to you doing your routine, Mycroft. And one of those is to keep people from harm. You doing something out of character makes a big difference to me. Especially if it concerns your well being too."

Mycroft sniffed quietly, not being over with his cold, before meeting his brother in the eyes again.

"It's just circumstances. You're right, I shouldn't have left the weapon so carelessly. But it wasn't me who showed the world its true usage. Ergo…you're at fault too."

"This and that are different things."

"Maybe. But you don't have to agonize with serving me, I'm not angry with what happened. The umbrella's brand is quite popular, and yes, it shall be traced to me because the one holding it is a brother of mine, but really, you don't need to come and stay here over something so trivial. Small things like this can't get between us, brothermine." He took a sip again and finished the cup. "I am feeling better already. I told you, you need not spoil me."

Sherlock studied his brother's pallid, recovering face for a while, before arching an eyebrow.

"You just want to get rid of me so you can go attend that meeting of yours."

Mycroft's eyes flashed. " _Drat_."

"Not happening, you're going back to bed." Sherlock took the saucer and the cup towards the sink, then took his brother by the arm.

"Sherlock—" Mycroft called out, "You're right—out of character is silly. Get off me and get on with your life."

"I'm getting on mine once my brother has figured out why he goes and leaves weaponized umbrella in the hands of potentially dangerous people. It's very obvious, you are sick so off to bed you go—"

"I shall not be manhandled, Sherlock—!"

"Don't worry, your brother's got you."

 _"Oh, damn."_

Unknown to Mycroft was Sherlock's own memory of looking outside the window that day. Of how he saw his older brother jump out of 221B unto the rain, stopping in midway and getting soaked, while looking absentmindedly on Speedy's café. Frowning, Sherlock hastened to go down but when he opened the door, his brother's car was already gone. Stopping to where Mycroft had stood, Sherlock looked over Speedy's window and saw what Mycroft saw—his landlady, Mrs. Hudson and Rosie, chatting animatedly with the owner. Then Sherlock's sharp eyes caught his older brother's familiar umbrella. Wondering what it was about, Sherlock saw Mrs. Hudson bid good bye to the owner. Sherlock immediately went up to his flat and waited for her to come up. When she did, she told him what happened and that if he could thank Mycroft for her before going downstairs.

Sherlock was stumped.

Did his brother just acted… _human?_

He figured why Mycroft didn't take the umbrella back. He also figured what it was that changed him even for a moment. Looking over at John and Rosie, Sherlock Holmes heaved a deep sigh and decided to get in touch with his older brother. His calls didn't reach him for the past hours, and that was when Sherlock also noted that something was wrong. This was confirmed when he finally managed to hear his croaky voice over the phone and new the icy water and the rain didn't work for him.

For the very first time, Sherlock genuinely wanted to go to Mycroft that despite the rain, he urged his best friend to come. Mycroft was never one to share his troubles to people. He wasn't one to share himself too. And he wasn't one to rely on others. Sherlock had taken for granted how self-reliant his older brother was to the point that he had to tell him straight in the face he couldn't possibly get lonely if he wasn't aware of the feeling. Mycroft had grown accustomed to being alone that he does everything by himself. Even when he was feeling ill.

But not tonight. Not this day.

Sherlock had seen a side of his brother that Mycroft may not be even aware of. A side that had change the older Holmes in his eyes. Something that had confirmed his thoughts especially with Mycroft so willing to sacrifice himself for John long ago. That deep within his cold mask was an actual person who had suffered greatly with the fate of their family… who had grown up taking the burden and learning to steel himself completely.

But Sherlock has found it, no matter how small the action maybe, a window to his brother's _heart_ long concealed.

Thus, it was time to discover more.

* * *

 **The End**

* * *

 _P.S I know how especially bad Mycroft was feeling as I am actually sick. Two days of bad cold *sneezes*_

 _Still, nothing cures the soul than a Mycroft-Sherlock brotherly story :)_

 ** _Thank you for reading!_**


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